Dear Diary, shut up fuck shit fuck. No that's not true. I like to play. if you can read this diary and I put in personal details does that mean you can find me? I'd prefer it if you didn't.
I want to draw things down. I don't want to take pictures. I dono, whatever you want.
Where is my boyfriend? He is downstairs lost in looking for a job. The American accents I can't hear anymore. I don't know who I am or where I am. Nothing is special and it never was. I can hear the sounds of someone doing the dishes and the voices of people outside. When you listen too hard you begin to doubt the things you are hearing. there's a level of balance in concentration where you don't go crazy. Can I hear N coming up the stairs? Or did I imagine that. Some people write wildly positive things in their diaries. I like the noise of the keyboard as I click the keys. Clickety clickety clickety. The sun is in the trees and the moss is on the roof. The curtains are hanging down beside the window like a bed or a muslin robe. A greek statues robe.
I will be honest in my writing.
My pubes are tickly my vulva. That's something I might hide in real life. Why? Because it's vulgar. Vulgar vulva. Or maybe it's something that's attention-seeking to say.
We're so sad about our short comings, but they're just not that short.
God, how I want to be free. I want to be so so free, but it's scary to be free. People might hurt me and abuse and yell at me until I conform. I can't handle it. I was free once, sure. But people were surely angry at me for it. I was shunned for my freeness and my convictions. Maybe I wasn't very nice, but why is there such a rule for us to be nice?
Poopy poopy poo. I did a poo. Poos in the toilet in America look funny because the toilets are different.
I might just keep writing. I really want to delete what I wrote about pubes. I really do. It feels so shockign to me, but maybe it's not even that shocking.
I can hear NA downstairs. She talks really loudly. She's pretty nice. Both NA and J are nice. Is it an ignorant nice or is a real nice. Like, because they have money they can make real change unlike people who don't, but I don't know. I can't reconcile all things together. Especially the older I get. I feel like the older I get the less hope I have. It's all pretty nihilistic, especially because a palm reader said I Was going to die at 72.
What I dislike is my contradictory insides about skepticism and spirituality. They're always fighting. Keeping me away from connecting with anyone. I hate the skeptics and I hate the weirdos.
I hope we can leave soon. I hate when people talk loudly with frustration it scares me.
Where is N? Can we go soon. I hate the sound of my own thoughts in my head, but I need them to get by.
Does anyone else wake up everyday wuth a sense of dread, because I do. I feel like I just have to learn to live with it now. That sucks.
I also wake up everyday with dry eyes nose and mouth, but it doesn't both me so much when I'm loved.
What is missing? What is really missing you know? I listened to this podcast where the guest mentioned that the eternal longing in life is as if every human was born absolutely addicted to heroin, but has no idea and they try endless things to fix it and satiate it for the rest of their life. So what is this mysterious heroine or do we have to go cold turkey. Is it kind of like the garden of eden? And it's just desire? Give up desire cold turkey? But then...do we die? If we give up...do we just die?
Well I best be off. I need to pack.
Salut.